


when you need someone

by Crimson_Voltaire



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Overstimulation, Period Typical Sexism, Queenie needs a hug, Sensory Overload, Seraphina is a good friend, Sexist Language, anxiety attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 10:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: Sometimes, the buzz of people in her head gets to be too much, and Queenie needs to get away.





	when you need someone

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, thanks for stopping by! Originally written for a friend on Tumblr, but posting here as well. As per usual, edited but unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

“Queenie, can you do this-“

“I need that filed, dear…”

_She seems out of sorts today…_

“Queenie! I have-“

_Look at the tits on that one, bet she’s -_

“Hey doll, how about some coffee, here, I’ve been-“

_Wonder if she’s loud. Graves is a lucky bastard…_

It’s like standing in the centre of the no-maj train station on a Friday afternoon before the holidays. Bodies everywhere, swarming and voices buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, pressing into Queenie’s eardrums. She’s jostled by them on all sides, busy people too wrapped up in their own lives to stop and see if she’s alright. She can’t focus. For a moment, Queenie can’t even tell which voices are audible and which are not. Everything blurs together into a growing, writhing roar of noise, sharpening into needlepoint and piercing the fine web of her hearing. Pain radiates outwards, sharp and unforgiving, lancing into her brain so deep her reaction is instinctual.

Queenie claps her hands over her ears, fingers twisting into her hair until the point of stinging to distract from the searing agony in her head and yells, “Shut up! Just shut up!”

One minute, the room is as loud as the wheels on the underground, the next, it goes as still as a cemetery and as silent as Ilvermorny’s halls over Christmas Break. Wide eyes and startled expressions greet Queen, people even twisting to stare. Their shocked gazes started up the assault which their voices and thoughts began. Under that barrage she feels her defences crack and crumble into dust, feels every bit of herself divulged to star-bright shock of what the hell and what’s with her? The decanter of coffee hits Abernathy’s desk with a dull thud, rolling on its edge once, twice, three times before overbalancing.

Queenie doesn’t stay long enough to see it fall, nor the way Abernathy squeaks when scalding hot coffee surges over the edge of his desk and onto his new suit pants. Queenie takes vicious pleasure in the quiet of the halls, only accompanied by the rapid clicking of her heels on old stone and the occasional sniff when she wipes away some of her tears. Those quick feet take her through halls she’s known since a month after graduation, down a little known passageway to an alcove where she can just sit. Queenie does that, presses back up against the wall, lets the rough stone scratch through her thin silk blouse and bleed cold into skin while she sinks down to the floor and draws her knees up to her chest.

For a few moments there is nothing. Nothing but the beat of her heart and her breathing, nothing but her thoughts racing through her brain to slowly calm. Here, there is no train station busy madness, not even a hint of it. She gives herself a few moments to ease out of the rapid pace of her heart and the tension in her muscles, focusing on slowing her breathing and not the dull ache beginning to set in under the skin on her forehead.

As Queenie relaxes enough to let her wand go clattering to marble - rolling across the unforgiving chill to lay half a foot away - she becomes aware of distant tap-tap-tapping footsteps which draw closer with every beat of her heart. She doesn’t recognize the footwear when the owner finally rounds the corner and stops in front of her. But, as her eyes travel up from sensible pumps to equally sensible pantsuit, she can feel her heart plummeting into the very depths of her own feet.

Seraphina Picquery regards Queenie for a second longer, takes in the no doubt runny makeup and watery eyes and curls askew, and then kneels down. Without hesitation, she reaches across the space between them and takes gentle hold of Queenie’s shoulders, tugging her in close. The press of the woman’s body against her own is so foreign and yet familiar, part of Queenie relishing the touch of another human being. She rests her cheek in the junction between Seraphina’s throat and shoulder, shutting her eyes again. Picquery doesn’t say anything, and she’s an accomplished enough occlumens that the sound of her shield is just background noise, easily forgotten. The relative silence in the alcove rolls on, marred only by peacefully slow breathing.

Seconds pass, rolling into minutes and stretching long enough to give Queenie time to stitch up her seams and patch the holes made by ceaseless demands and a long day. Finally, Queenie withdraws, taking Picquery’s offered hand to pull herself to her feet. A swish of Seraphina’s wand has her makeup set to rights, and another swish of Queenie’s smooths out her clothing and soothes ruffled curls.

“Thanks,” Queenie murmurs, a little shy. Sera reaches out again, and gives Queenie a squeeze on the shoulder.

“My office is open any time you need a moment. You don’t have to ask.” She very pointedly doesn’t mention why Queenie might need a moment – it’s something none of the upper management every speak of – and quite frankly Seraphina doesn’t need to be a legilimens to know of the chatter and the whispers and the gazes. “Thanks,” Queenie says again, still as heartfelt, and receives a brief, if understanding incline of Seraphina’s head in return.

The alcove isn’t too far away from Percival’s office, and so Seraphina walks with her there. They meet no one on the way, thankfully, but Queenie has the feeling that if they had the unfortunate passerby would’ve received a mighty glare for any gawking.

“Take the day off,” Picquery says, when they’re standing outside of Percival’s office. She reaches forward again, squeezing Queenie’s shoulder one final time,

“And take care of yourself.” With a crackle and a whisper, the mental barrier between them lowers. It’s like static on the wireless at home – fuzzy for a bit before the voice comes through clear –

_If you need someone, you know where to find me._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think.


End file.
